


Place in the Universe

by AZGirl



Series: Musketeers - Season 2 [9]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e06 Through a Glass Darkly, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:05:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3463739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“D’Artagnan,” King Louis said, “it has come to our attention that your recent, dangerous gamble with our lives is the result of your youthful inexperience and that you may benefit from some additional training.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Place in the Universe

**Author's Note:**

> This tag ran away with my imagination by taking a couple of things said in the episode, sprinkling in some themes from the season, and went off on a tangent. I hope you enjoy what is my longest, completed Musketeers story to date…

**ooooooo**

_“At this fateful moment, we must consider our place in the universe. Do we control our fate? Or are we merely the playthings of a power beyond our understanding?”_

_~~~~~Marmion to King Louis, 2.06 Through a Glass Darkly._

ooooooo 

Two days after the eclipse and the incident at the old fort in Châtillon, d’Artagnan was startled from his sleep by a knock on his door. Dragging himself barely awake from his bed, he opens his door to find Sébastien, who had been assigned to overnight guard duty at the garrison. 

“D’Artagnan, I apologize for waking you so early, but this just came from the palace.” 

He took the paper thrust at him, noting the official-looking seal. After the incident with the assassination of the Spanish ambassador, d’Artagnan was not as quick to believe that the seal was the real thing just yet. 

“Who delivered this?” he asked, lifting the paper slightly. 

“One of the King’s pages, the one with the two crooked fingers… Jacquot?” 

“Ah, yes, Jacquot,” d’Artagnan said with a nod. He remembered the lad and no longer thought the missive might be a forgery. “Is he awaiting an answer?” 

“No, the boy left immediately,” Sébastien replied before yawning. 

“My thanks, Bastien,” d’Artagnan said, realizing he was keeping the man from his sleep. “Sleep well.” 

Sébastien started to step away from the door before abruptly turning back. “Swords this afternoon?” 

D’Artagnan nodded as he replied, “Look for me later.” 

Given the uncertain life of a Musketeer, both of them knew they could only make tentative plans. 

ooooooo 

Standing in front of a window which overlooked one of the palace’s gardens, d’Artagnan contemplated the past several hours. 

The missive had been a summons from the King to report without delay to the palace. D’Artagnan had thought the timing strange since he was aware of the King’s opinion regarding being awake so early, but followed his orders regardless. 

He rushed through his morning ablutions, briefly considering waking one of his friends to inform them of where he was going, but decided against it. 

The four of them had gone out for drinks in celebration of his reunion with Constance and Aramis cheating Death once again. They had also lamented the Musketeers continued disfavor with the King and Rochefort’s continued rise in power. It made no sense to him that their King was so blind to Rochefort’s true character, but d’Artagnan was well-aware of how easy it was to sway Louis with flattery of any kind. They had spent several hours together laughing and drinking and returned to the garrison late in the night. 

A summons to the palace was not a good enough reason to deprive his friends of their much needed sleep. In case they came looking for him, d’Artagnan left the note he had received on his bed as a clue to where he had gone. 

Having made good time riding to the palace, he was surprised to be directed to the alcove he now stood in instead of immediately being brought to the King. No explanation had been given to him why he was made to wait, and no one had come by to give him an update on when he would be seeing the King. 

Having been waiting in the room, which was little more than an alcove, d’Artagnan having had more than ample time to just about memorize every detail of it. The space was devoid of any furniture and its décor looked as if it was from the time of Louis’ father. An ugly painting on one wall depicted a stag hunt while an ornately framed mirror hung the opposite wall. He had quickly become bored of the room, and had subsequently turned his attentions to the world he could see beyond the window. 

From the changing lengths and positions of the shadows outside, d’Artagnan could tell that it had been at least four hours since he’d received the summons. Given the urgency of the missive, he couldn’t understand why he was being made to wait so long for an audience with the King. 

At first, he thought that the King had forgotten about him or had not wanted to deal with business so early. As time had gone by and he’d observed the comings and goings of the people passing by his doorway, it was clear that the King had been in chambers with several of his council members at one time. 

Just as it was approaching midday and his stomach was getting more and more insistent on reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything in almost a day, a page came to fetch him for his audience with the King. 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan was led into the Library, immediately noting that Rochefort was talking to the King. Rochefort looked directly at him and said something to the King, who turned around with an annoyed expression on his face. D’Artagnan bowed but hadn’t missed the smug look on Rochefort’s face. 

“D’Artagnan, you are late,” King Louis said. Turning his head towards Rochefort, he added, “I don’t understand why my Musketeers can’t seem to follow the simplest of orders.” 

Wondering how he could be considered late when he’d been waiting for hours, he realized the source of Rochefort’s smug expression. 

The summons may have been real, but it seems that the details had been altered in order to further tarnish the Musketeers’ reputation with the King. 

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” he said with a slight bow, “I misremembered the time of our meeting.” 

“It’s just further evidence that our decision concerning you is the correct one,” the King said, sounding disappointed. 

D’Artagnan’s stomach clenched and he suddenly felt ill at Louis’ words. Was he being dismissed from the Musketeers? He schooled his features as best he could in order to not give Rochefort any extra satisfaction from these proceedings. 

“D’Artagnan, it has come to our attention”—he nodded towards Rochefort—“that your recent, dangerous gamble with the traitor, Marmion, for our lives is the result of your youthful inexperience and that you may benefit from some additional training.” 

At the King’s pause in speaking, d’Artagnan risked a glance towards the Comte de Rochefort. The man’s expression was one of deep satisfaction for what the King was about to decree. He suddenly wondered if he might not be better off being decommissioned from the Musketeers. 

“Therefore, we have decided that you will be seconded to the Red Guards for a period of one week, beginning now. You will train with them and hopefully gain the knowledge you are so obviously lacking.” The King turned towards Rochefort and asked, “You will see to it, Rochefort?” 

The Comte bowed and replied, “Of course, Your Majesty.” 

“Excellent!”—Louis clapped Rochefort on the shoulder and smiled—“I knew I could count on you.” 

They bowed when the King started to walk away, mumbling something about being hungry, while d’Artagnan struggled to come to terms with what he had just heard. 

Additional training? A week with the Red Guards? So much for this being a ‘correct’ decision by his King. Rochefort definitely had some sort of plan and it _did not_ include training to improve his skills. 

As soon as Louis left the room, Rochefort said, “Come along, d’Artagnan. We have much to accomplish and so little time in which to do so.” 

His temporary captain gave him a look which he did not understand. “Did Tréville never teach you how to show respect to your superiors?” 

“He did,” d’Artagnan said, trying not to lose his temper over the backhanded slight to his true captain. 

Despite the man’s dismissal and disgrace, his fellow Musketeers still considered Tréville their captain. 

“Perhaps the lesson did not take. You will treat me with the respect due my position; therefore, your responses to me will be accompanied with either a _Sir_ or _Captain_. Do I make myself clear?” 

“Yes sir,” he said resolving in that moment that he would do his best to never call the other man captain. 

Rochefort in no way deserved that kind of respect, especially for a position he did not truly earn. 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan had been ordered to ride directly behind Rochefort when they had left the palace grounds. When they came up to the turn off for the Musketeers’ garrison, he urged his horse in that direction. 

“Stop! What do you think you are doing?” Rochefort asked. 

“I thought I would go inform the other Musketeers where I will be as well as grab some things for the week.” 

“That’s your problem d’Artagnan: thinking instead of following orders. Did I order you to do anything other than follow me back to my garrison?” 

Rochefort gave him a look that said there was only one correct answer to his question. 

“No sir,” he said, feeling embarrassed that he was being dressed down in public. 

A condescending smile erupted on Rochefort’s face. “It appears you _can_ learn. There is hope for you yet.” 

D’Artagnan’s fingers clenched the reins in his hand until they turned white in an attempt to keep hold of his temper. 

Athos was always saying that he let his emotions too much free rein, d’Artagnan had the feeling that this coming week would be a true test of the other man’s lesson: head over heart. 

ooooooo 

At the stables of the Red Guards’ garrison, Rochefort waved off the stable boy who had come to take their horses. 

“D’Artagnan, for this next week, you will be considered a new recruit. In addition to their training, all recruits are given extra duties as befits their knowledge and abilities. You are a farm boy so you should be able to handle helping to keep the stables in pristine condition. Your horse will be entirely your responsibility.” 

“Yes sir.” 

As he followed along behind Rochefort, a quick count of the number of horse stalls left him reeling at the thought of how long it would take each day to follow through on his latest order. 

ooooooo 

Once they reached Rochefort’s office, d’Artagnan was subjected to a 15 minute diatribe about the incompetence of the Musketeers. Each comment was obviously designed to get a rise out of him and he’d had to force his mind to go blank to get through it. He could not allow the other man’s point to be proven by striking out at a commanding officer. 

From there, Rochefort began to issue a series of orders, each one meant to put him in his new place. He was restricted to the garrison’s grounds and could not leave for any reason short of a fire. As the newest recruit, every other man in the regiment was technically his superior officer and could order him around. He was to show them every ounce of respect due to them because of their higher ranks. His work in the stables was to be done before breaking his fast. Afterwards he was supposed to spend the day training to bring his skills up to par. 

Every hour of his day was outlined to him in such a way that it seemed he would hardly be given the time to use the latrine let along eat a meal or sleep. 

ooooooo 

Just as Rochefort was beginning to wind down issuing his orders, there was a knock on the door. 

“Enter,” Rochefort said. 

A man a head shorter and much wider in girth than d’Artagnan entered the room carrying a bundle of cloth. 

“Ah, Porcher… Just in time,” Rochefort said, the smug smile form earlier returning with full force. 

“D’Artagnan, this is Porcher, the quartermaster. He has brought you your new uniform and will show to your new quarters.” 

New uniform? No way was he going to— 

“I have a uniform already, sir,” d’Artagnan said, gesturing to his pauldron for emphasis. 

In a heartbeat, Rochefort went from leaning against his desk to standing directly in front of d’Artagnan. 

“You are a Red Guard now. Being out of uniform is a punishable offense.” 

“The assignment is only temporary…sir. I don’t see—” 

“And that is your problem, isn’t it, d’Artagnan. You _don’t_ see, do you?” 

D’Artagnan swallows down a retort. The problem is d’Artagnan _does_ see. He sees more than the arrogant man in front of him knows. He just prefers that his enemies, and sometimes even his friends, underestimate him by making them think he is only a ignorant farm boy. 

Rochefort nods to Porcher, who leaves the room. 

“Last chance,” the other man says. 

D’Artagnan stands still and quiet, refusing to give in. Red Guards killed his father. Rochefort’s machinations have cost Tréville his position as Captain of the Musketeers. The Guards are enjoying royal favor due to just about every mission going wrong in such a way that makes the Musketeers an easy target for blame by the King. He would rather be punished than wear that uniform. 

The door opens and four men enter and head straight for him. He gets in a few good punches in before they force him to his knees and wrench his arms behind his back to the point where he thinks his shoulders might dislocate. 

“Very well, d’Artagnan. If you will not follow my orders, then you must be punished.” Rochefort points towards the door and the guards force him to stand. “Take him to the post.” 

As he’s dragged out, he sees that one of the four men stays behind, supposedly to get his orders regarding d’Artagnan’s punishment. 

D’Artagnan is led past a host of Red Guards who are engaged in various training activities to a post at the far end of the garrison’s practice yard. It’s at least two feet taller than him and thicker than one of Porthos’s thighs. Besides the crossbeam, there were multiple metal rings which he assumes they used to tie men to in various positions. He wonders if Rochefort would dare to flog him. 

From across the yard, the guard who had stayed behind in Rochefort’s office yells, “Strip him!” 

As soon as the guards start trying to take his weapons and clothes away, d’Artagnan renews his struggling. It does no good, however, because it only encourages more men to come over and help subdue him. Each man gets in at least one punch or kick to his torso as they take everything away from him, leaving only his braies behind. At least he would not be faced with _that_ particular indignity. 

They force him to stand so that he is basically hugging the post and tie his hands to a ring just above shoulder height. As they tie his feet to the post, Porcher dumps the Guard uniform in two piles on the ground where he will be forced to look at it no matter which way he turns his head. 

From behind him, Rochefort says, “You are very lucky that you are not one of my soldiers, otherwise I would have had you flogged for disobeying my orders. As it is, you will be spending the night here meditating on the consequences of your actions.” 

“Mollard, no food or water for d’Artagnan. He is to be released first thing in the morning. Make sure he puts his uniform on before he’s sent to do his extra duties.” 

“Yes sir, Captain Rochefort,” Mollard says before looking up at the increasingly cloudy sky. “And if the weather turns?” 

“Then I guess he will get water to drink after all,” Rochefort replies, causing several of the men to chuckle. 

ooooooo

The position in which he was tied does not allow for much movement beyond shifting his weight from one foot to the other. As the afternoon wore on, he had to put up with insults continually hurled his way by the Guards and the occasional random punch or kick to his body. It really bothered him that he could not fight back or defend himself in any way. 

It was not long before he discovered a very…unpleasant side effect to his punishment: he very badly needs to use the latrine. 

Knowing that he won’t be released until morning, he tries holding it, but by the time the sun goes down it has become painful to do so. 

Another hour goes by and he can’t decide which is worse, the smell of food reminding him how hungry he is or the painful pressure on his bladder. 

Just as he is about to give in and let his muscles relax and endure the humiliation, there is a crack of thunder and seconds later, it begins to pour rain down on him. 

He lets his bladder go, hoping there is enough rain by morning to clean away the obvious signs of what he’d been forced to do. 

As he tilts his head up towards the sky to capture some rainwater to drink, he thanks God for providing the rain to cover his embarrassment. 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan thinks he fell asleep at some point in the night because the next thing he knows false dawn has broken. 

He has no idea when the rain stopped, but he can feel that his hair and braies are still soaking wet so it must not have been that long ago. He can’t help but be thankful that it is summer otherwise he figures he would be in bad shape by now if it had been winter. Right now it’s cold enough for him to shiver but he doesn’t think there is any danger of hypothermia. 

Shaking his head at the thought, he remembers what Rochefort said about his punishment and the hits he has received while being trussed up. 

That’s when he realizes that, because his assignment is temporary, Rochefort cannot cause him any permanent harm. They can’t do anything to him that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for injuries sustained by training or risk all-out war between the Red Guards and the Musketeers. The train of thought, rather than giving him relief, actually makes him worry more. 

There are many ways to hurt someone without ever laying a hand on them, and humiliation and degradation seems to be Rochefort’s methods of choice. 

ooooooo 

Dawn has barely broken over the horizon when Mollard cuts d’Artagnan loose from the post, signaling the end of his punishment. He turned and leaned his back against the post in order to keep his balance as he worked to get the feeling back in his limbs. When the pins and needles had begun to fade he took a few unsteady steps from the post only to be shoved just hard enough from behind so that he landed on his hands and knees near the one of the piles of clothing. 

“Put your uniform on and get to work, you little bastard. I don’t have time to coddle you.” 

“Where are my clothes, my weapons?” d’Artagnan asked, not yet willing to give in. 

“Gone. _Those_ are your clothes now,” Mollard replied. 

Before d’Artagnan could say anything further, Mollard kicked him hard enough for him to fall onto his side in the mud, pain shooting through his hip where the man’s boot had made contact. From behind him, he could hear a smattering of laughter, and he didn’t have to look to know that a few of the other Red Guards had witnessed everything. Word of this incident would have reached every man in the garrison before breakfast. He couldn’t wait to hear what they had to say to him about it. 

D’Artagnan reached for the sodden uniform. 

As he stood, d’Artagnan realized that there was no way he could win in this situation. Though he doubted it to be the case, King Louis may have honestly have wanted him to improve as a soldier, but it was clear that Rochefort had no intention of following through. He was here not to train but to prove the point that the Musketeers were out of favor and that Rochefort was climbing ever higher in the King’s esteem. 

He was stuck here for the next six days; perhaps the smartest thing he could do was to do nothing at all. Resistance to his situation was just adding fuel to their taunts and to their determination to break him. 

But he would not break. 

He would wear their uniform, train in their ways, accept their ridicule, but he would never stop being a Musketeer in his heart. 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan had stopped only long enough to put on the rain-damp breeches and slightly too small boots before heading to the stable. 

Once inside, he found a place to hang his new shirt and doublet up to dry and got to work on mucking out the stalls. 

The stable boys were friendly enough but looked almost unnerved to see him doing what was usually their job. It only confirmed his suspicion that Rochefort had been lying about the ‘extra duties’ new recruits were required to do. 

They ended up working out a system whereby the boys would take the horses out of their stalls to groom them while d’Artagnan mucked them out. Hours later, when he was finally finished with the upkeep of the stables, d’Artagnan was able to care for his horse. He was relieved and thankful to see that his horse was not being treated poorly, but it wasn’t long before he noticed that all of his horse’s tack was gone. 

The Red Guards had stripped him of every last thing that signified to the world that he was a Musketeer. 

Despair descended for a time and he leaned his head against his horse’s neck, seeking solace from the one being who did not despise him in some way. But, after a few minutes, his stubbornness and his determination to not be broken reasserted itself. The outer trappings of being a Musketeer were gone, but they couldn’t take the inner ones away unless he gave in. 

And he was all the more resolute that would not happen. 

ooooooo 

By the time he finished and found the mess hall, there were only a few men left eating a morning meal. 

When he asked the cook about some food, the grizzled older man threw a piece of bread towards him which only his quick reflexes helped him to save. 

He looked around for somewhere to sit and eat, but none of the tables were empty. The looks on the men’s faces expressed their clear contempt for him, so he went back outside and sat down on an overturned bucket that had been left next the building. 

The bread was dry and practically tasteless, but he savored every bite as if it were a rich, hearty stew. After more than a day without something to eat, he was thankful for any kind of food. 

ooooooo 

When mustering for the day’s orders, d’Artagnan was continuously jostled and eventually pushed to stand at the very back of the group. 

He was assigned to training at hand-to-hand combat with a group of raw new recruits. 

D’Artagnan was not surprised that once he got to the practice field, that the man in charge ordered him to help demonstrate the moves. 

It was also not surprising to discover that the instructor, who he later found out was named Clavier, was not at all gentle. A match in size for Porthos, the man forbade him from defending himself so that he could focus on demonstrating offensive maneuvers. When the other recruits had their chance against him, he was cuffed up the side of the head for daring to correct another recruit when they got a move wrong. 

After Clavier was finished teaching the new recruits, d’Artagnan was ordered to help with the ongoing training of the commissioned guards. Every time he tried to go on the offensive, several onlookers would gang up on him and force him to the ground, digging a knee into his back and nearly dislocating his limbs. After a while, he decided it was pointless to try to do anything other than prevent himself from being seriously hurt. 

It was quite possible that, by the end of the day, his bruises had bruises. It was a good thing that Porthos had, early on in his training, taught him the art of falling without seriously injuring himself or he would likely have broken a bone. 

ooooooo

The evening meal presented its own challenges. 

He tried getting in line for some food but was roughly shoved out of it with the admonishment that new recruits were the last to get their food. He should have known better; more than once he’s experienced this phenomenon to some degree with the Musketeers. 

The men who had been with the Musketeers regiment since its inception expected the younger, less experienced men to adhere to an informal ranking system. More seniority equaled more respect and more privileges in their minds. For the most part it was well deserved, as in Aramis’s case. 

The Red Guards took the idea of seniority to its extreme but it was even worse for him. No matter when the rest of the Guard had enlisted, he was to be considered the newest recruit, which meant he was sent to the very end of the line. 

By the time he got to the stew pot, there was barely enough left to fill half a bowl. That and a small crust of bread was his dinner. He knew that the small portion left to him had been made deliberately less than what it could have been, but he was thankful to get what he’d managed to scrape together from the bottom of the kettle. Once he got his food, he saw that the others had purposely made it so that there was nowhere for him to sit and eat. He shrugged and took his food outside back to the bucket he’d sat upon earlier in the day and ate alone. 

He ate quickly, anxious to get some sleep for he was exhausted in both body and mind. Due to the lack of sleep from the previous two nights, his punishment, and all the physical labor and activity of the day, he was weary down the center of his being, his body more than ready for sleep. His mind was worn out as well from having to put up with the multitude of humiliations he had experienced as well as all of the degrading remarks the other soldiers had flung towards him. 

What he found most discouraging was that it was only the end of his first full day as a Red Guard. All he could think about was getting to bed and sleeping the night away. 

It was in that moment when he remembered that he had no idea where he was supposed to bunk down at night. Porcher had been about to show him when he had refused to wear the Red Guard uniform. He knew the quartermaster was still inside eating his own meal so d’Artagnan resolved to wait for the man to exit the mess hall before asking about where he was to sleep. 

While he waited, he set his bowl beside him, leaned his head back against the wall of the mess, and closed his eyes, trying to get some rest. The next thing he knew something hits him full in the face, startling him awake from what had been a peaceful doze. Opening his eyes, he found a blanket worn thin by age and years of abuse. 

Porcher showed him to the bunkhouse where he was told that there were no beds available and that he would have to make do with a spot on the floor. He thanks the quartermaster for the man’s time, getting a look of surprise in return, and heads out to the stables to take care of his horse. 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan is desperate for sleep but knows that he wouldn’t be able to truly rest without ascertaining whether or not his horse is suffering because of him. Besides, Rochefort had told him that his horse was his responsibility alone though he wasn’t sure if that included keeping the animal watered throughout the day. 

He heads directly towards his horse and sees that the animal has not been harmed, only been given a stall that had obviously not been kept up as well as the others. Knowing that he would be rectifying that situation in the morning, d’Artagnan decided to let the issue go for the night. 

It’s a great relief to see that, as cruel as the men were being to him, that they weren’t extending the poor treatment to his mount. 

D’Artagnan’s horse whinnies and nudges him when he gets close enough, and he apologizes for leaving the animal alone all day in a strange place with strange horses. He gives his horse some water and feed before heading back to the barracks building assigned to him. 

ooooooo 

The room was designed to comfortably hold enough beds for six men, but the one that would’ve been closest to the door had very obviously been recently removed. 

Because his every move was being watched, he shrugged as if where he slept did not matter to him. He then shook out the blanket that he had carried with him back and forth from the stables for fear of it being taken away or soiled in some way while he had been gone. 

Lying down on the ground, he decided that where he slept truly did not matter at that point, because he was thankful to finally be able to rest his overtaxed muscles. 

He must have fallen asleep quickly because he doesn’t even remember rolling himself in his blanket. 

It is quickly apparent that he is not meant to get a full night’s sleep because at what he thinks is the end of the first watch of the night, one of the men kicks him awake. He quietly asks the man what he wants, but the only answer he receives is a wicked smile and the door being closed again. 

At the end of every watch throughout the night, the same thing happens. Each man kicks him awake disturbing his sleep. He’s pretty sure that those recruits unlucky enough to have been assigned to the room pretty much hate him by now because it’s highly unlikely that their sleep hadn’t been disturbed as well. 

After the third time, he lay there staring into the dark unable to fall back asleep despite the fact every fiber of his being was begging for more. 

He thought about his friends and wondered if Rochefort had even bothered to inform the Musketeers of his temporary assignment. More than likely the man had not even tried to notify anyone as there was no one officially in charge anymore. D’Artagnan hoped that his brothers have already found the summons as it was their best clue to enlightening them of his present location and duties. 

Thinking about his friends only made him miss their comradery so much more than he already did. This was only the beginning of his assignment; he still had to endure another five days of his extra training. In order to survive the week, he had to lock away all thoughts of his brothers otherwise their absence would torment him. 

It had been quite obvious at the time that his reassignment was a power play by Rochefort, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite like this. 

He hadn’t learned anything except which of the men wouldn’t be able to survive more than a couple of minutes in any sort of real battle. He’d also found out which men were cruel and which ones simply wanted to be a soldier, uncaring of the politics involved. 

In fact, d’Artagnan now considered Rochefort’s plan to temporarily assign him to the Guards to be an arrogant mistake. The Musketeers have never before been given such insight into the regiment and now he will be forced to spend a week with them, learning their strengths and weaknesses. 

This realization gave him a renewed sense of purpose and a means with which to truly endure the rest of his time with the Red Guards. With that in mind, he sat up, gathered his blanked, and quietly left the room. 

ooooooo 

As he walked towards the stables, he folded his blanket, intending to hide it in his horse’s stall. He wouldn’t put it passed any of the men he was being forced to associate with to steal it so that he had nothing to ward off the night’s chill. It was basically the same reasoning he’d had for not removing any of his clothing before going to sleep that night, no matter how much he wanted a reprieve from the too-small boots which pinched his feet. He couldn’t trust any of the other men to not try something which would increase his torment. 

He greeted his horse and laid the partially folded blanket over the animal’s back before leading it out of its stall. 

Given the dual constraints of being restricted to the garrison and his other duties, d’Artagnan regretted that he could not give his horse any proper exercise. The best he could do was to lead the animal around in a continuous loop of the stable’s interior. He didn’t dare go outside for fear of being seen and the animal being included in the men’s cruelty. 

In making his horse his sole responsibility, Rochefort had made another error in judgment. It had been meant to be an extra punishment, more work to exhaust him, but in actuality, it was a blessing. It was the one thing he was happy to do despite everything else he was being made to take part in. 

This animal was the one being who didn’t hate him, the one who provided a reminder of who he truly belonged with and missed with every other breath he took. Caring for his horse was a balm to his battered and bruised body and mind. He knew the comfort the animal provided would help give him strength to face another day. 

ooooooo 

A new day had dawned, his second full one at the Red Guards’ garrison, but it wasn’t all that much different than the previous one. 

The food he was left at meal times was barely enough to sustain him. 

The “training” he received wasn’t really training but rather helping the instructors demonstrate techniques to the other men and being used and abused in the process. 

He bore it all stoically, ignoring the slights, the slurs against his upbringing, and the insults to the Musketeers and his mother. Due to the long hours of work his muscles were constantly sore and he was given barely any time to rest and regain his strength. He didn’t fight back when the men punched him, jostled him, or physically abused him in other ways. 

He met their cruelty with indifference and was as polite as he could be under the circumstances. 

ooooooo 

By the fifth day, he was so exhausted that he could barely think straight, simply existing in a haze of rote routine. 

That afternoon, his routine was interrupted by a visit from Rochefort. 

D’Artagnan was summoned to the man’s office under the pretense of assessing the progress of his training; he could tell that Rochefort was gauging how successful his plan, his petty show of power, had been thus far. 

“How are you finding your training, d’Artagnan?” Rochefort asked. 

From the smug expression on Rochefort’s face, it was clear that the older man thought he was winning some sort of victory. The only victory d’Artagnan was willing to concede was in successfully keeping him from a proper night’s sleep. 

“Very well. Thank you, sir,” he replied. 

“And are you getting along with my men?” 

“I am, sir. They are excellent fellows and quite easy to get along with.” 

“Are the food and accommodations to your satisfaction?” 

“They are, sir. I thank you for asking.” 

Each successive polite and uncomplaining answer Rochefort received from him only served to irritate the other man further. It was readily apparent that the man had expected some sort of outburst or a flood of complaints for the way he was being treated, but the Comte did not get it. 

D’Artagnan refused to play the other man’s game, refused to let the man gain any sort of victory over him if he could help it. Though, given Rochefort’s current expression, he suspected that his final days with the regiment would be made much more difficult than before. 

As punishment, d’Artagnan was ordered to stand guard while Rochefort attended to matters of paperwork which pertained to his duties as captain of the Red Guards. 

In his mind, d’Artagnan considered it another mistake on the other man’s part though a relatively small one. Rochefort had inadvertently kept him from the practice yard and his hand-to-hand training. The man was actually saving him from getting some additional bruises; the idea amused him rather more than it probably should have. 

D’Artagnan was actually quite content with the boredom of guard duty; it was a nice change from the past several days. He even had a partial view of the outside world from the window across the room. He amused himself observing the tree he could see from where he was standing, counting its leaves and trying to predict what direction the wind would blow next. 

Rochefort finished his work a few hours later and he was sent to the practice yard. By this point, the men were working on their marksmanship on targets set up on the other end of the yard near the post he had been tied to that first night. He had not been allowed to participate other than to keep the weapons being used loaded. 

He considered it yet another mistake, but allowed that it was a minor one since the Guards didn’t realize they were making an error. His aim had never been bad; it was definitely _not_ as good as Aramis’s but had always been serviceable and deadly when it needed to be. 

It was his speed in loading his weapons that had always been a bit of a problem. After almost a week, he’d loaded so many pistols and muskets that he’d managed to greatly decrease the amount of time it took him to reload. He had also learned which men in the regiment were the best and worst shots, though none even came close to Aramis’s level of skill. 

ooooooo 

His prediction that his and Rochefort’s encounter would lead to more hardship for him had turned out to be correct. At the end of the training session, he was ordered to clean each and every weapon used in the exercise, when in the days prior every man had done it themselves. Without complaint, he went to work, briefly considering doing a slipshod job, but couldn’t abide the thought of anyone being hurt or dying due to a misfire – even if it was a Red Guard. 

He did this latest task thoroughly and the weapons were probably in the best condition that they’d been in since they were new. 

As a result, he missed the evening meal entirely. He didn’t even bother trying to get the cook to give him something, knowing from the previous experience of two days ago, that it would be of no use. 

Instead he went to take care of his horse for the evening. 

As he approached his horse’s stall, he saw that there was an apple on a post just out of his horse’s reach and obviously left for him to find. He picked it up and examined it. Finding nothing wrong with it, he smiled and began eating. 

He had no idea who his benefactor was, but he was extremely grateful to them, resolving to say an extra prayer that night on their behalf. He ate the majority of the apple, reserving a small portion for his horse. He thought the animal deserved a small treat for being cooped up for so long. 

ooooooo 

On the sixth day, the amount of work he was given seemed to have tripled compared to every other day. In addition to his work at the stables and cleaning the pistols used that day, he was ordered to polish all the swords used in the sparring sessions. As with the marksmanship lessons, he learned the Guards’ weaknesses and thought no one even came close to matching Athos’s skill with a blade. 

The cook had also conscripted him to unload a wagon full of foodstuffs meant to feed the regiment for the upcoming week, and the quartermaster made him chop wood for half an hour. 

The most annoying task he had been ordered to complete was to stand guard at a door to some random supply shed through two watches of the night, though he knew for a fact that it had never before been guarded and likely would never be again. 

Throughout the day he bore it all without complaint, without resisting, and unfortunately without any sleep or something to eat. 

By the time he stumbled into the stable to care for his horse, he wondered if it would be able to last the time remaining on his assignment. 

To his surprise, he found two applies waiting for him. 

He ate the first one quickly, barely tasting it as it went down. For the second one, he forced himself to slow down and enjoy it, again reserving a small piece for his horse. He sent a brief prayer of thanks to God for his benefactor. The apples were a more than welcome respite from his hunger and the bland food he’d eaten the past week. 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan sat down at the back of his horse’s stall, allowing himself to relax for a few minutes before beginning the final day of extra “training.” 

Technically, he should be released from his one week of duty with the Red Guards at noon, but he suspected that Rochefort would purposely refuse to see it that way. He shook his head in denial even as his instincts were telling him that he would be forced to spend an eighth night at the Guards’ garrison. 

For some reason, the thought of an extra night made him miss his brothers more than he’d allowed himself to the whole rest of the week. Not since the first day he had met them had he been out of contact with them for so long. Not since he’d become a recruit had he gone so long without being in their company, whether it be all three or just one of his friends. 

Up until now, he had pushed almost all thoughts of his friends to the back of his mind; it had somehow been easier that way. Now that he was only hours, at most a day, away from seeing them again, he knew that his remaining time with the Red Guards would appear to last forever. 

Abruptly, he stood and moved to get to work, reminding himself over and over that he would be with them again soon. 

ooooooo 

As the day had continued, d’Artagnan expected to see Rochefort and have to listen to some excuse why he was assignment was not yet over, but the older man never showed. Either the King had prevented him from showing up at the garrison or it was a move designed to dishearten him and perhaps provoke him into doing something rash. D’Artagnan refused to give in to that kind of manipulation and focused on his work. 

He wondered what new humiliations the men would come up with to torment him during his final day, but there were none. It was almost as if they couldn’t come up any additional ideas and instead made it a repeat of everything he had been subjected to over the past week. 

By the time the sun set, it was very obvious that he had been correct in his assumption of how Rochefort would count the days. 

Again that night, he was assigned last-minute guard duty after only an hour of sleep. After he had stood guard through two watches and finally had the time to tend to his horse, he was so exhausted he could barely think straight. 

The only thing that really kept him going was the fact that there were so few hours left before he was once more a Musketeer to the outside world, though he had never stopped being one in his heart. 

He could do this; he would not let Rochefort win when he was so very close to the finish line. 

ooooooo 

Arriving in the stable to tend his horse, he found two more apples waiting for him. Another prayer of thanks was said for the much needed sustenance. 

To keep himself alert as he worked, he turned his mind to the mystery of his benefactor’s identity. He tried to remember if he’d even seen any of the men eat an apple, but he could not. Then again, aside from the first two days, he’d never made it to any of the meals early enough to get anything but scraps that had been left behind by the others so he had no real idea who did and did not eat the fruit. 

Now that he was really thinking about it, he found it interesting that when he’d helped the kitchen boy unload the supply wagon, he’d not seen many apples amongst the rest of the food, let alone the variety he prefers. His head was so muddled with lack of sleep that he couldn’t imagine who had left them for him, though he was ridiculously thankful for the small kindness. 

ooooooo 

He didn’t bother to go back to his barracks that night and allowed himself a short nap in his horse’s stall before doing his regular work cleaning up the stable. 

D’Artagnan was not even given the chance to try to get something to eat before he was sent to the practice yard for a final bout of hand-to-hand training. The instructor was barely holding back from severely injuring him, but d’Artagnan used what Porthos had taught him survive. It was obvious that the Guards were trying to get as many parting shots in as they could with the extra rough training session. 

ooooooo 

It was almost noon when d’Artagnan was ordered to Rochefort’s office. 

It took all his fortitude to not show how relieved he was that he was about to be released from the undeserved duty with the Red Guards. 

“Ah, d’Artagnan,” Rochefort said as he laid aside some paperwork. “I apologize for not getting here earlier, but the King needed my advice on an important matter of state.” 

“Not a problem, sir. I had enough to keep me busy,” d’Artagnan said, barely able to keep from rolling his eyes at Rochefort’s boast. 

“Good,” the man said with an oily smile on his face. “I hope your week with us has been productive.” 

“It was, sir.” 

“And you learned something?” 

“I learned a great deal, sir. Thank you for the opportunity.” 

They each stared at the other, Rochefort’s gaze assessing him for hidden meanings, and neither willing to look away from the other. 

Eventually, Rochefort said, “D’Artagnan, I am officially releasing you from your assignment with my Red Guards. I hope you have learned your lesson.” 

“I did, Rochefort, though I’m not sure it was the one that was intended for me to learn.” 

If an expression alone could kill someone, then d’Artagnan knew he would have dropped dead right then and there. 

“My clothes and other belongings?” d’Artagnan asked. 

Rochefort waved a hand towards his office door. “See Porcher.” 

D’Artagnan bowed slightly and said, “It was a pleasure, Comte de Rochefort.” 

ooooooo 

He was given the run around for some time before he was finally able to track Porcher down only for the man to tell him that all his belongings were in the stable. 

He found his things in a messy pile in front of his horse’s stall. As quickly as he could manage, he changed out of the hated Red Guard uniform and back into his own. 

Though he had not stopped being a Musketeer during his assignment, it still felt wonderful to look like one again. 

All of his belongings were accounted for and nothing seemed damaged beyond a tear in his tunic’s sleeve and several coins having gone missing. He shrugged at the loss, thinking it was not worth it to complain though he could scarcely afford the loss of the money. 

As each of his belongings was restored to their proper places, he began to feel lighter as if a heavy weight was lifting from his shoulders. As he tacked up his horse, his excitement to go home continued to grow. 

Exiting the stable, he nodded his head towards the men who had tormented him for the past week and wished them a good day. 

ooooooo 

As d’Artagnan rode through the main gate, he had to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the sun in his eyes. 

Doing that allowed him to see a sight he had sorely missed – his three friends. 

He was almost overcome with joy to see that his brothers were waiting for him, but knowing they were being watched he simply smiled and said, “Gentlemen.” 

Turning his horse towards home, he just barely caught his friends’ shocked and confused expressions. 

Noting Aramis was about to say something, d’Artagnan said, “Eyes and ears, Aramis. Later.” 

As they rode towards home, unless the path was too narrow, one of his brothers made sure to ride next to him. After a week of enduring never-ending harsh treatment from everyone, this minor kindness towards him felt a little foreign but meant a lot to him. 

The comfort of having his friends surround him was welcome but it had an unintended side effect of making him relax his guard. Along with more than a week of barely enough sleep and not enough food, he was beginning to have difficulties keeping his seat in the saddle. 

At last, they rode in through the gates of the Musketeer garrison – he was finally home. 

He saw his brothers dismounting but couldn’t seem to muster any energy to do the same as he soaked in the hazy atmosphere of the place, feeling disconnected but happy to be back. 

Eventually, someone touched his leg and he looked down to see Athos, whose expression was one of concern. D’Artagnan began to dismount through the increasing haze and the sudden buzzing in his ears. 

He heard someone sounding alarmed – Athos? – say his name, but he couldn’t respond as he found himself suddenly tumbling into an abyss. 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan opened his eyes and blinked. 

Once his vision cleared, he saw that he was in his room at the garrison and that Athos was sitting in a chair reading a book. 

When he shifted, Athos looked over at him but did not say anything. The silence was a little unnerving but he figured the other man was waiting for him to speak. 

“Good evening,” he said, guessing the time of day by the lack of outside light. 

“Good evening. How are you?” 

“Tired, sore.”—he gestured to the room—“How did I get here?” 

Athos closed the book in his hands with more force than was necessary and tossed it onto the table beside him. He stood and said, “What do you mean?” 

“The last thing I clearly remember is riding towards the garrison,” d’Artagnan said, thinking he must have passed out from exhaustion on the way home. 

The alarmed expression on his friend’s face was enough to make him worry. “Athos? What is it? What’s wrong?” 

Instead of answering him, Athos starts to pace the length of the room, looking as though he wanted to run his sword through something, or _someone_ , repeatedly. In the middle of one pass, he detoured towards a bottle of wine and poured a glass, downing its contents in one long swallow. 

D’Artagnan felt his concern for his friend grow as he watched the other man’s actions. He didn’t understand why Athos had reacted so strongly to what he had just said; it’s not like he’d been injured or anything. He made to sit up but felt as though his limbs were heavy and tight with disuse. 

Athos rushed to help him and d’Artagnan snagged a sleeve as the older man tried to step away. 

“Please, Athos,” he said, not letting go of the sleeve. “I don’t understand. Are you alright?” 

His friend didn’t pull his sleeve away, instead sitting down on the edge of the bed by his knees. 

“You passed out as you dismounted your horse – _after_ returning to the garrison. Scared the life out of m—us.” 

_After_ returning to the garrison? He must have been more exhausted than he thought to not remember returning home. 

“We brought you to the infirmary to check for injuries,” Athos continued, “and found you to be filthy under your clothes, littered with bruises, and we could practically count you ribs.” 

Athos’s fists were clenched, prompting d’Artagnan to put his hand over the one he could reach. He squeezed once and kept his hand in place until the clenched fist finally relaxed. 

“I’m sorry to make you all worry. I didn’t get much sleep this past week.” 

Athos stood suddenly, his face part anger but mostly anguish. 

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said. 

“Get what, Athos? What don’t I—” 

D’Artagnan was interrupted by the not-so-timely entrance of Aramis and Porthos to his room. 

ooooooo 

“Well, look who’s finally awake again,” Porthos said, a huge grin erupting on his face. 

“Again?” d’Artagnan said. “I was awake before?” 

Aramis’s head briefly whipped towards Athos before the man headed straight for his bedside. 

“Athos?” Aramis said. 

“He doesn’t remember returning to the garrison,” Athos said. 

Aramis tried to school his features, but d’Artagnan saw the surprise in the other man’s eyes. 

“But that was—” 

“Exactly,” Athos said. 

“So you’re saying...” Porthos said before trailing off, looking like he wanted to punch someone dead. 

As d’Artagnan looked between his friends, he could see how worried they were. 

“Can someone, _please_ , tell me what the hell is going on!” 

He moved to get out of bed but Aramis stopped him. 

“We _will_ tell you, but I need to examine you first.” 

“But—” 

“Please,” Aramis said, “it will help us answer your questions. 

He nodded and endured, as patiently as possible under the situation, Aramis asking him a bunch of questions. The only answer which caused Aramis’s carefully blank expression to falter was when the older man asked him what day of the week it was. A quick glance towards Athos and Porthos told him something was definitely wrong with his answer, but he wasn’t sure exactly what. 

Aramis performed a brief physical exam during which he noticed that his bruises looked much better than they should be – almost as if they’d had a few days in which to heal. But how could that be? 

He’d always been a fast healer, but not _this_ fast. 

In his mind, there was really only one possible conclusion. 

“How long?” he asked to the room. 

His three friends looked to each other to answer, but none of them spoke up. 

“ _How. Long?_ ” d’Artagnan asked again. 

He didn’t really feel any worse for his week away besides the obvious, but he wasn’t that hungry and felt well rested. It had _definitely_ been more than half a day since he’d returned to the Musketeers’ garrison. 

“Two days. Almost three,” Porthos said. 

“I’ve been asleep that long?” he asked, surprised that it had been so long. 

He had been in a constant state of exhaustion for the majority of the past week, getting sleep whenever they would let him, but almost three days asleep seemed a bit much. 

“No, you haven’t,” Aramis replied, looking concerned. “You’ve actually been awake several times since you collapsed so spectacularly in the courtyard.” 

“I have?” d’Artagnan said, not quite believing what he’d heard, but now understanding why the others were so worried. 

Aramis stood and fetched him some water. As he drank, Athos took Aramis’s place on the bed and Porthos moved to pat his leg before dragging a chair closer to his bedside. Aramis grabbed another chair and they both sat. 

“We cleaned you up as best we could and put you to bed where you slept for about eight hours,” Aramis said. “When you awoke we got some food into you and tried to get you to tell us about your week with the Red Guards, but you refused saying it wouldn’t help things.” 

With a grin on his face, Aramis added, “You had fallen asleep mid-sentence saying that to us.” 

Porthos picked up the tale. “Every time you woke up, we poured water into you, made you eat, and helped you with the other things.” 

“And each and every time,” Athos said, “you reminded us how stubborn Gascons could be and refused to tell us what happened.”

“You really don’t remember, do ya?” Porthos asked. 

D’Artagnan shook his head in the negative. “What’s wrong with me?” 

Aramis ran a hand through his hair. “I think…I think you were so worn out, so exhausted in both mind and body that you were basically running on muscle memory, almost sleepwalking. Your body knew what it needed, so your mind sort of…took a break.” He shrugged. “I really don’t know how else to explain it.” 

D’Artagnan dropped his face into his hands, trying to process what he’d just heard. 

“And my memory?” he asked. 

“This is the longest you’ve been awake so far. We’ll have to wait and see how you are when you next wake up.” 

“So you don’t think there’s anything wrong with me?” 

“No more than usual,” Porthos said. Athos raised an eyebrow towards the man and Porthos added, “Sorry.” 

Aramis smiled. “While what Porthos said may be true, I believe it was just your body and mind needing rest.” 

With a concerned look towards Athos, Porthos stood and nudged Aramis’s shoulder with his hand. 

“Aramis, why don’t we go get d’Artagnan something to eat?” 

At first, it looked as if Aramis was going to refuse, but stood and agreed to leave when Porthos tipped his head in Athos’s direction. 

Still seated beside his legs on the bed, Athos’s elbows were resting on his knees, his hands dangling loose between them, and his head was hanging low between his shoulders. 

To d’Artagnan, who was not as oblivious to what was going on as everyone thought, Athos’s posture looked defeated. D’Artagnan knew Porthos was giving the two of them a chance to talk, thinking that he would be able to get their friend to talk. 

D’Artagnan caught Aramis’s eye on the other man’s way out and smiled a little. It was a silent promise to try and find out what was going on in the mind of their troubled brother. 

ooooooo 

“Athos?” d’Artagnan said when Porthos and Aramis had left. 

The other man didn’t seem to notice that his name had been called so he tried again, and again there was no response. 

He sat forward and put one hand on Athos’s forearm, startling his friend who looked at him with troubled eyes. 

“That first day, we had no idea where you were,” Athos confessed. 

D’Artagnan squeezed Athos’s forearm as a reminder that he was there now. One corner of Athos’s mouth lifted in response. 

“When we checked your room, we found the missive you’d received. At the palace, we were informed of your new assignment with the Red Guards.”—Athos rubs a hand over his face—“By the time we knew your whereabouts, it was already too late. All we could do was…wait.” 

“Athos, none of this is your or any other Musketeers’ fault. The fault lies with Rochefort who thought he could flaunt his influence with the King. I don’t want to make things worse, but I will say this much: my week was more about humiliation and degradation than ‘training.’ Rochefort tried his level best to break me, but he _did not_.”—d’Artagnan chuckled—“In fact, I believe that he was a little disappointed with the outcome.” 

“How so?” Athos asked. 

“After the first night, when I was punished—” 

“Punished? What—?” 

Athos tried to move away and stand up, but d’Artagnan squeezed the hand already on Athos’s forearm and laid his free hand on the junction of the man’s neck and shoulder, keeping him in place. 

“Athos, no! It’s done. Let me finish.” 

After a moment, Athos nodded his ascent and relaxed. D’Artagnan let his hand drop from Athos’s shoulder after a brief squeeze of the muscle. 

“I was punished for refusing to wear a Red Guard uniform, made to stand all night.”—d’Artagnan decided on the spot that Athos didn’t need to know all the details of that night—“It was all a part of Rochefort’s game, but I later realized that, in his arrogance, he had made several errors. The first was that he thought he could so easily break me, but his greatest mistake was letting me in there in the first place.” 

“What do you mean?” Athos asked. 

“Think about it, Athos. I was there around the clock for a whole week. I had ample time to observe their inner workings, the level of Rochefort’s influence. I may not have been treated the best,”—Athos snorted at his words—“but I learned far more than Rochefort intended, and the best part is that I don’t think the man realizes that yet!” 

Still smiling, d’Artagnan rearranged his pillows so that he could lean back against them, wanting to get more comfortable and to take pressure off his aching back muscles. 

He expected Athos to move to sit on one of the chairs, but the older man remained where he was. Normally, Athos eschewed such close contact, but at the moment he was obviously content to stay where he was. It warmed d’Artagnan’s heart to think that his largely unflappable friend still seemed so unsettled, so concerned for his well-being. 

“Rochefort made other mistakes enacting his scheme,” d’Artagnan said. 

“He did.” Athos stated, more than asked. His friend almost looked amused; it was much better than the air of defeat and the lingering anger of earlier. 

“Yes,” d’Artagnan replied with a smile. “He took everything away from me, but he left me my horse. Made its care solely my responsibility. But instead of adding to my workload, caring for my horse served to ground me, reminded me who I am.” 

He reached for the cup beside his bed and drank some water, contemplating his time away. There would be much that he would _not_ tell his friends for fear of reprisals. D’Artagnan refused to have his brothers be injured or jailed on his behalf. 

He felt that he had risen above Rochefort’s petty schemes; he would not have his victory tarnished. 

However, there were some things he would definitely be sharing with his friends. Porthos would certainly love to hear just how awful the instructor was at certain aspects of hand-to-hand combat. Aramis would be outraged to hear how poorly the weapons were cared for and about his increased speed in reloading weapons. 

He found himself at a loss what to tell Athos about his time away. He hopes Athos would be proud of him, but it was always difficult for him to know for sure. As close as he was to Athos, it didn’t necessarily make it easier for him to understand his enigmatic friend’s expressions or actions. 

“Rochefort wasn’t around that much. After that first afternoon, he didn’t return again until the fifth day. I don’t think he expected my reaction to his taunts. I think you would’ve been proud of me the way I handled myself – at least I hope you would be.”—He dipped his head briefly in embarrassment for what he’d accidentally admitted—“Anyway, I was tired, sore, and filthy, yet I acted as if none of what I’d gone through up to that point had affected me, that I was grateful for the experience. You should have seen his face; it was _so_ worth the additional work they piled on me for my last two days.” 

Athos’s face darkened. “Additional work?” 

D’Artagnan shrugged. “It wasn’t that big of a deal, except for the fact that I missed meals and sleep because of it all.” 

They were both silent for a couple of minutes before d’Artagnan felt compelled to tell Athos something else of his time away. 

“One night, I found something that I did not expect.” 

“And what was that?” 

“An apple. On the fifth night, I had missed yet another meal, was exhausted, and still had to care for my horse before I could get what sleep I was allowed. I walk in and see an apple waiting for me. Finding it that night helped to keep me going. Finding more apples on my last two nights… Well, it meant a lot to me just to know that someone cared.” 

ooooooo 

Aramis and Porthos returned with enough food to feed all of them as well as plenty of wine, which he noted Athos barely touched. He also noticed that his friend had remained seated on the bed instead of claiming one of the chairs. 

After their veritable feast, Aramis and Porthos attempted to catch him up on everything he had missed in the past week. As his two friends lapsed into their usual back-and-forth banter, d’Artagnan found his mind wandering back to what he’d been through recently. 

Like Louis at Châtillon, d’Artagnan had had the trappings that outwardly identified him forcibly taken away. The King had been left with only his rich clothing and d’Artagnan left with only his horse. Both had their families forcibly taken away from them and they were left completely alone aside from the witness of others to their plights. 

They had been forced to be players in games that they had been given no choice but to play. The stakes had been vastly different, but each situation had left the two of them with very few options to survive with body, mind, and soul intact. 

The King had given in and played Marmion’s game, letting the supposed astronomer win skirmish after skirmish in the battle for his life. 

D’Artagnan had refused to give in to Rochefort’s game, realizing that he could not change his situation but he could use it to his advantage despite continuously facing setback after setback. 

Both of them had been humiliated time and again, but it was how they had each responded that set them apart. King Louis had learned nothing from his experience and censured those who were essentially blameless for what had happened to him. D’Artagnan had used his week with the Red Guards as an opportunity to gain valuable intelligence and as a lesson in endurance. 

It was also possible that Louis must have realized that d’Artagnan had once again been witness to his king reacting to situation in a less than flattering manner, one not appropriate for his rank. He wouldn’t put it past Rochefort to have taken advantage of that, making a suggestion that the King would see as a way to put d’Artagnan back in his place. 

It all came down to the choices they had both made, and d’Artagnan felt his choices over the past week had ultimately given him victory over Rochefort’s arrogance even though the other man may have won the shorter game. 

The long game was still being played out. 

Porthos’s boisterous laugh brought d’Artagnan back to the present and he forced himself to focus once more on the friends and brothers that he had missed so very much during the past week. 

Being back in their presence once more was better than any medicine that Aramis could force upon him. 

ooooooo 

Eventually, it started to become difficult for him to keep his eyes open. 

Once the others noticed, all three made preparations to depart. Porthos and Aramis promised to be back first thing in the morning while Athos announced that he would be leaving for a short time before returning to keep watch during the night.   

D’Artagnan had argued that he did not need to be coddled. He was exhausted, but not injured beyond muscle soreness, and would be alright by himself overnight. His three friends exchanged looks that clearly said what they truly thought of that reasoning. Aramis then reminded him of his recent memory issues and the need for someone to be there with him just in case his condition worsened in any way. Understanding that his friends were worried about him, d’Artagnan quickly acquiesced to their wishes. 

Once they had all donned their doublets, Aramis and Porthos quickly left, but Athos returned to his previous seat on the side of the bed next to d’Artagnan’s legs as if he were reluctant to leave him alone. 

D’Artagnan, who had been half asleep, levered himself once more into a sitting position and laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. 

“I’m fine, Athos, really.” 

Athos, an enigmatic expression on his face, nodded once before making a move to stand, only to suddenly pause. 

“For the record, d’Artagnan, I am proud of you… Always.” 

For a split second, he didn’t understand the non sequitur, but quickly remembered what he had inadvertently admitted just before their friends had returned with food. 

D’Artagnan had no idea how to reply. Athos very rarely gave such praise out to anyone; to have his friend say something like _that_ to him was a little overwhelming. Words having failed him, he let his next action do his talking for him. 

He leaned forward and rested his forehead on Athos’s shoulder. A moment later, he felt Athos’s head briefly come to a rest on top of his before it was gone again and Athos stood up. 

Without a word, Athos grabbed his hat off of the table next to d’Artagnan’s bed and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. 

If the recent praise had made him speechless, the small, yet tender display of affection left d’Artagnan equal parts amazed and humbled. He would never forget this moment though he knew that they would never again discuss it. 

With a huge smile on his face, d’Artagnan turned to blow out the candle, but stopped mid-action. 

On the table, right where Athos’s hat had once been, there was an apple. 

ooooooo 

_The end._

**ooooooo**

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any inaccuracies concerning any medical issues and the care of horses; I hope they did not take away from the story. 
> 
> No beta; mistakes were to be expected. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
